


you've got whatever's left of me to get

by coloredink



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Auto-Cannibalism, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Cooking, Food, Food Porn, Food is People, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2091051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What about if you could have me?” Will asked.  “Would you stop then?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've got whatever's left of me to get

“What about if you could have me?” Will asked. “Would you stop then?”

Hannibal tilted his head. There was nothing left of the warm and supportive psychiatrist who’d once asked Will to smile in his cobalt-blue dining room, and what remained was as wicked as it was sure of itself. Will wondered how he’d ever thought the wrinkles at the corners of Hannibal’s eyes were kind.

“I’m listening,” Hannibal said.

\-----

Hannibal heated a pan of half and half on the stove. When bubbles formed around the edge and steam rose from the surface of the milk, he added the sugar and stirred, until he could feel with his whisk that it had dissolved. He added the blood, the cinnamon, and the grated orange zest; it turned the mixture a lurid pink, that thickened and darkened to a rich chocolate color. He added the chocolate, breaking it into small pieces it over the pan and stirring until it dissolved. The kitchen filled with the smell of hot cocoa. He turned off the heat and poured the mixture, now thick and heavy like a custard, into a waiting jar, using a flexible spatula to scrape the bottom and edges of the pan. While the jar cooled, he washed the pan and his utensils, and then put the jar in the refrigerator.

The next day, he took the ice cream mixer bowl from the freezer, set it atop its base, and scraped in the mix. While it churned, he washed the dishes and chopped herbs for that night’s dinner. After fifteen minutes, he checked the ice cream maker, turned it off, and scooped the ice cream into a waiting quart container. He put it in the freezer to firm up.

After dinner that night, he told Will, “There is sanguinaccio gelato for dessert. Or, if you would rather, I have also prepared a blood orange granita.”

“Thank you,” said Will. “I’ll have the granita.”

\------

The bowl of clams was still steaming when it came to the table, redolent of butter and garlic, and garnished with a generous handful of coarsely chopped parsley. Hannibal provided another, larger bowl between them for the shells. Wll swallowed, picked up his fork, and eyed the small, crispy bits sprinkled across his dish. “Is that bacon?” he asked.

“No,” Hannibal replied.

Will shifted in his seat. The inside of his thigh ached: a deep, throbbing pain that seemed to come all the way from the bone.

Hannibal noticed, of course, because he had to notice. “Does it hurt? I have some ibuprofen.”

“It’s fine,” Will said.

“You should not take aspirin,” Hannibal said. “Nor should you drink too much alcohol. It may cause bleeding and swelling.”

“It’s fine,” Will said. He picked out a clam and ate it. He left all the crispy bits at the bottom of his bowl.

\-----

Will kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He couldn’t feel anything, which was strange, but he could smell it when Hannibal used the cautery tool: not like the barbecue pork that firefighters spoke so somberly of, but more like burning hair. He felt Hannibal’s movements, quick and economical, and that burning smell again as something must have started to bleed.

Afterward, Hannibal disposed of the drape and helped Will off the table and upstairs, where he deposited Will on the sofa. He had a small glass dish in his other hand, which he took to the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water and a pill for Will. “It will hurt, when the lidocaine wears off,” Hannibal said. “The pill should help.” Will dutifully swallowed down the pill and drank half the glass of water. “Rest,” Hannibal said, and left the glass.

It was possible that Will fell asleep, or maybe he just drifted. When he came back to himself, it was to the unmistakable smell of chicken soup. His couldn’t help it; his mouth watered. He was hungry, and thirsty again. He drank the rest of the water, got off the couch, and went looking for Hannibal.

Hannibal was in the kitchen, of course, lifting the lid to a large stockpot. “Ah, you’re up,” he said when Will came in. “Please, take a seat; don’t exert yourself. Are you hungry? I think the soup is ready.” He fished something out of the soup and into a small bowl, pierced it with a fork, and took a mincing bite. “Acceptable. Would you like some?”

“Yes, please,” said Will, and Hannibal ladled out a bowl and pushed it across the counter to Will, along with a soup spoon. The broth was golden, with flecks of fresh green parsley, and dotted with cubes of white chicken breast. Two fluffy pale spheres bobbed near the top.

“Matzo ball soup,” said Hannibal. “Traditionally, the matzo balls are made with schmaltz, rendered chicken fat.”

Will picked up his spoon and dipped it in the broth. “Thank you,” he said, and took the first sip.

\-----

Waking up from general anesthesia was exactly like having lost time. It seemed as if he’d only blinked, but everything was different: the lights were dimmer, he was covered with a light blanket, and Hannibal was seated in a chair next to the table, reading a book. Presently, Hannibal closed the book and said, “How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” Will rasped.

“That’s to be expected. Do you think you can stand? We’ll get you to your room, and you can have something to drink.”

With some assistance from Hannibal, Will was able to get down from the operating table and upstairs, to one of the guest bedrooms, where the covers were already turned down and an IV stand waited in the corner. Hannibal put in the IV, left, and returned with a bowl of ice chips. He placed one in Will’s mouth for him to suck. “I need to finish up downstairs,” he said, touching Will’s wrist. “But I’ll be back shortly. Do you feel any pain?”

“A little,” Will said. It wasn’t bad; like a bruise, more than anything else.

“I’ll bring you some paracetamol, then.”

Hannibal padded out of the room. Will lifted up the sheet and pulled up his gown to look at a large, square bandage taped over his hip. He swallowed and let the sheet drop.

Hannibal returned with two small white pills, which he left on the bedside table. He picked up Will’s wrist and held it while looking at his watch. “I’ll check on you every fifteen minutes. Are you quite comfortable?”

“Yes,” Will said. He took a deep breath. “What’s for dinner?”

Hannibal gave him a fond, radiant smile. “Grilled beef tenderloin, with marrow sauce. Tomorrow; I think for today you should rest.”

\-----

“No,” Will said.

Hannibal paused. He looked disappointed; not disappointed in the way a child is disappointed by the withholding of a new treat or toy, but disappointed in the way a parent is when he’s caught his teenage daughter trying to sneak out of the house. “Will,” he said, and his tone was paternal as well, “you said ‘nothing that will show’ and ‘nothing that will kill me.’ You will hardly die without your spleen.”

“No,” Will said again, his voice shaking.

Hannibal tilted his head, just like he had the day that they’d struck this deal. “I could knock you unconscious now,” he pointed out. “Help myself.”

“And then I wake up in a bathtub full of ice?” Will grinned, without malice and without joy. “That’s not your style. Knocking me out and taking it from me wouldn’t be _fun_.”

“You think that’s what this is for me, Will? Fun?”

“Oh, yes,” said Will. “And isn’t it? Isn’t it fun?”

\---end---

**Author's Note:**

> [coloredink.tumblr.com](http://coloredink.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [sumiwrites.wordpress.com](https://sumiwrites.wordpress.com/) (if you wanna see the books I've written)


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